Sapphire
by flitchoftherivers
Summary: Aragorn/Legolas. Post-coronation according to the books; in no way related to any of my other fics. It has been two years since the Fellowship dissolved, and life has Aragorn in a slump. The fact that (as far as he knows) Legolas is gone does not help.
1. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER:  I neither own these characters, nor think they'd stick around long if I did.  I haven't been making money off of them, and I haven't been keeping them locked up in my room for my own personal pleasure.  Much.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:  Written for **The Alliance of Men and Elves** slashfic contest.

The smells of salt and turpentine were in the air when Aragorn emerged from the shadows of a grimy inn.  He was none too sparkling himself—his hair hung in lank strands like it did back in the days of the Fellowship, and a mixture of blood and sweat had trickled and congealed sometime before morning, leaving a salty metallic rime around his mouth and in his beard.  He leaned heavily against the cornerpost of the inn, waiting for the dusty street and the world beyond to settle into manageable spinning.

"You've been drinking again."

Aragorn winced, barely managing to stifle a groan.

"You ought not to be out where your subjects will see you, my liege," chirped a small man in black and white livery who materialized out of the alley at Aragorn's back.  "You know how they do talk…"

Aragorn wanted to tell the birdlike little man that he didn't care what they thought; he didn't care if they knew he was drunk or bleeding and hadn't cared for some time.  He wanted to say to the man, "They know!  How could they not know after all these months?  And do they care?  Does it even matter?"

But he said nothing and let his manservant bundle him in an all-concealing cloak and lead him, as steadily as was possible, up the long cobbled road to the palace in Minas Tirith.

*    *    *    *

"I don't want to go."

"My liege, you must!  This is a dinner with what Elves are left in Lothlorien!"

Aragorn's laugh sounded brittle in his own ears.  "Elves.  You want me to dine with Elves.  They have all gone west, Beregrond, have you not heard?"

The servant's hands were less than gentle as he hauled Aragorn from his seat by the fire, though his voice maintained its usual level of decorum.  "Oh no, my liege, they're not gone by any stretch of the imagination, not at all.  Why just last spring the delegation from Rivendell arrived, don't you remember?  And they said…"

_It doesn't matter what they said_, Aragorn thought as heavy robes, ever the concealers of a hard night out, were fastened at his arms, his neck.  _All the Elves who matter—they are gone._

In the great hall Arwen would not meet his eye, and he would not seek hers.  He took his place at her side with a deal more stiffness than that gleaned from weary bones, and wondered if the smattering of Elves noticed the space kept between the king and queen.  Probably not.  Probably the poor scraggly waifs in their thinning silk were too bereft to spare a care for an errant mortal.  Ah, but what they didn't realize was that they were all in the same boat, in the end.  They might as well be mortal for with the loss of their rings.  It was all so funny.  So terribly, terribly amusing.  Aragorn stifled a laugh, doubting the Elves would see the humor in the situation.  He wondered why he bothered.

"…thought it prudent to attend to trading agreements, given the amount of time that has elapsed since our last diplomatic measures…"

From far off Aragorn gathered that the Elves were saying something.  Trading agreements?  Ha!  What could they possibly have left to trade?  No matter.  Whatever it was, Arwen would take care of it.  She took to her status as queen more than she had even taken to him.  Which suited him just fine.

"…in accordance with our woodland kin…"

All right.  It was definitely time to break out the wine.  But when Aragorn reached out for the decanter at their end of the table Arwen reached it first, never taking her eyes off the lecturing Elf, beringed finger closing about the bottle and sliding it well out of Aragorn's grasp.  Curse the woman!  Couldn't a man whet his thirst in his own kingdom?  

With a triumphant glare in her direction Aragorn shoved his chair loudly across the floor tiles, preparing to make a most unkingly lunge across the table for the prized decanter.  But before he could carry through with his plan, a few more of the lecturing Elf's words percolated through his sodden, sulking consciousness.

"Our informant, the former Prince of Mirkwood, advises us to continue—"

Aragorn choked on nothing.  "What?" he blurted, oblivious to the daggered look Arwen shot at him.

The Lothlorien Elf frowned.  "To continue exporting our cloth for maximum—"

"Not that, you fool, about—about the Prince."

"_Former_ Prince," the long-nosed Elf correctly promptly, casting a questioning glance at Arwen, whose face was pasted with a smile fit to shatter mirrors.

"No matter, is he here?  In Middle Earth?  Did he not go to the Grey Havens?"

The head elf shared another one of those infuriatingly long looks with Arwen before responding.  "He…never made it to the Grey Havens."

Aragorn lurched, catching the table for support.  "He's dead, then?" he rasped.

"No."  To everyone's surprise it was Arwen who spoke this time.  "His father, Thranduil, intercepted him and disowned him."

"Why?" Aragorn gaped.

"No one knows."  Arwen's faintest of smirks said she did.  "But he left his father in disgrace.  Which makes me wonder why, after being turned away at the Grey Havens, he finds sympathy with the Elves of Lothlorien."  Her gaze fell coldly on the motley contingent.

"Oh, Lady, I assure you—" began the head Elf from Lorien, but Aragorn didn't hear the rest of the reply.  As soon as he regained his faculties he broke into a run, decanter and Lothlorien alike forgotten as he made his stumbling, crashing way up four flights of stairs and endless corridors to the cramped tower he called his own.  Once there he slammed the heavy oaken door shut and barred it, then stared around the bleak room as if expecting to find answers.  His eye lit on the neck of a bottle peeking out of a pile of royal finery and he grabbed it, sucking every last drop before hurling it out the window.

So he was in Middle Earth.  Sweet Elbereth, Legolas was in Middle Earth and Aragorn hadn't even guessed it!  Why hadn't the Elf come to him?  Or sent him a message, or _something?_  Surely he knew…gods, he must have known how Aragorn wanted him!  He was an elf; they were supposed to be intuitive about these things!

Frantically Aragorn searched for another bottle.  Questions, so many questions…he slumped against the wall, feeling the sun's heat through stones that failed to warm him.  What was it that blathering diplomat had said?  Something about not being a prince anymore…why?  What could Thranduil possibly have against that gorgeous son of his?  The dirty bastard, if he hurt dear Legolas' pride…

Aragorn moaned into the garnet glass of the bottle he'd found stuffed under his mattress.  It didn't matter, did it?  It didn't matter how much he wanted to protect Legolas, extol his virtues to his father; to rip that shimmering silver silk from his body and—

No.  It most certainly did not matter.  Because if it did, Legolas would have found him.  If the Elf had known Aragorn's affections, he would have made contact somehow.  Unless…

The thought hit Aragorn so hard, even the sweet burning of the bottle couldn't purge it from him.

Unless the Elf had known all along, and didn't think Aragorn worth the trouble.


	2. Chapter 2

            The familiar rapping echoed through the drear little room, bringing a lopsided smile to Aragorn's soused face.  What was this, the fifth time tonight?  He startled to giggle when he thought of prim and proper Beregrond unlocking the door only to find it barred from the inside.  He stopped giggling when a frigid female voice and not Beregrond's nasal whine penetrated the timbers.

            "You humiliated us today, Aragorn.  I don't know how we'll ever repair relations with the Elves of Lothlorien, let alone our own people.  Now—"

            "What does it matter?"

            Aragorn could almost see Arwen's chiseled beauty constricting as she worked to process the information.

            "What?" she shrieked, right on cue.

            Aragorn giggled and took another swig from his private stash.

            "What does it matter?  What does it _matter?_  Have you lost you mind, Aragorn?  Don't you care anything for your people?"

            "Not particularly," Aragorn replied, bursting into full-fledged guffaws at the irate pounding on the door.

            "Aragorn son of Arathorn, open this door this instant!"

            "Ho Tom Bombadil, Tom Bombadillo!" Aragorn sang, far louder and lustier than he felt.

            "I give up!" Arwen shrieked from the other side.  Before Aragorn could reply with a smart remark he heard her add in an aside to someone else, "Post a guard.  Bring him to me as soon as he steps foot out of that room."  When her footsteps receded down the hallway Aragorn let the empty wine bottle roll across the stony floor.  

What did it matter, indeed.

*    *    *    *

            "Temper temper, Sam, I only ever gave Frodo my sword.  Nothin' to get all upset about."

            Aragorn swayed a little on his feet, pointing a finger at the wardrobe.

            "And you, Gimli!  D'you have any blurry idea how…how…"  The king frowned, searching for his train of thought.  Perhaps another bottle would ease things along.  "How difficult," he cried triumphantly, remembering, "you made my life, you rotten son of a…Dwarf!"

            "How so?"

            "How so, you ask?  _You're_ asking _me_ how so?  I'll tell you how so!  Always prancing around Legolas like some fat little hound, never letting me get a word in edgewise—how so?  Ha!  You had him to yourself all through the Glittering Caves, you selfish fiend…"

            "And this distresses you?"

            "Elbereth knows it distresses me!"  Aragorn hurled his latest bottle into Wardrobe Gimli, savoring the smash of glass, only to discover with dismay his empty hands.  "Curse you Gimli, now look what you made me do!"  He stumbled toward the bed in the faint hope that it would yield more ale, but one of the still-whole discarded bottles slipped under his foot—Gimli's doing, he was sure—and he went flying.

            Strong arms caught him.

            "Gimli, gerroffame, I mean it!  Fuzzbearded little Elf snatcher…"

            "Your drunken charm remains unrivalled, I see."

            "Don't get cheeky with me, son of Gloin, or mark my words I'll…"

            Aragorn focused blurrily and, in the dim starlight reflected in off the Tower of Ecthelion, thought he caught the glint of sea-flecked eyes.

            "Or you'll what?"

            Aragorn's tongue was thick even without the liquor.  "L—Legolas?"

            "Assuredly not," Legolas—no, Aragorn corrected himself confusedly, not Legolas—replied, hoisting Aragorn easily from the glass-and-garment-littered floor to the only slightly cleaner bed.  "don't you recognize a Dwarf when you see one?  You've been drinking far too much, Aragorn."

            "You're one to talk, Gimli," Aragorn muttered, batting weakly at the hands that settled him on his pillow.  "Imagine that, receiving drinking warnings from a Dwarf.  Almost as funny as getting advice for your love life, no?"

            "Are you going to start in on that again?"

            Aragorn's laugh was bitter.  "Oh no, why would I mention that?  After all, dear Gimli, what does love matter in this world?  What does any of it matter?"

            Without warning, Gimli's eyes—the ones that looked remarkably like Legolas'—were close.

            "A very great deal," the Elf That Was Not whispered, lingering in Aragorn's face a moment before pulling away.

            "What's that s'posed to mean?  And what right d'you have to parade around looking like Legolas?  And while we're at it—"

            The imposter laid a hand on Aragorn's biceps and squeezed reassuringly.  "Hush and sleep," the Elf whispered.  "At this rate your morning will be very dark indeed," he added, gesturing to the empty bottles about the room.

            "All mornings are dark," Aragorn growled.

            "That's not true."

            "It is, and you—you, you double-crossing Elf-snatching Dwarf, have the nerve to sneak up here and make it worse!"  Aragorn tried to rise from his pillows to strike, but the imposter pushed him back down.

            "You are not yourself."

            "I am!  All mornings are dark, I tell you!"  Aragorn felt the threads of his thought fraying, threatening to unravel with the drink.  "Why do you think I turn to the bottle?  Why do you think I moved up here?  Why do you think…"  He choked, reaching for a consoling bottle that wasn't there.  "Why do you think I'm so alone," he finished finally in a whimper.

            "But you're not," the imposter spoke suddenly, and leaning close he looked and smelled and sounded so like Legolas that Aragorn didn't know whether to lunge at him with his fists or his lips.

            "Sleep, now," the imposter crooned, sliding Aragorn's eyelids shut with his fingertips.

"You are cruel," was all Aragorn could think to say before his mind caved in on itself in a puddle of alcohol.

*    *    *    *

            Oh, the many colors of pain.  There were the rampant reds and yellows, of course, and insidious greens and browns, but every so often there came a bolt of black so sharp and sudden it was like a dark jewel piercing the brain.  It was in the throes of one of these searing jolts that Aragorn opened his eyes.

            It was a mistake.  Not the blinding flash of sunlight, oh no—that failed to cut half so deeply as the glimpse of empty bed and blowing curtains, tiled floors glittering with the glass of comfortless bottles.

            He was alone.

            Why oh why had he ever let himself believe his drunken fantasies even for a moment?  He didn't remember everything—at  least, he didn't think he did—but who could forget those soft lips and high cheekbones hovering close enough to lick, those pale blue eyes close enough to glint with sapphire flecks?

            And it was all a dream.  Groundless, truthless and without meaning, just like this world he was waking to.

            With a howl of rage Aragorn lurched from the bed (where dream-hands had propped him and tucked him, so kind), ignoring lances of pain in feet and mind alike as he stumbled across class shards to the window with its mournfully blowing curtains.  He paused for a moment, squinting out across the columns and courtyards that in another time, another world he could have come to love.  He had the vague idea that there was a protocol to this sort of thing; that there were words to be said and reasons to be given.  But there was no one to tell them to and, that fact alone being reason enough for anyone in Aragorn's personal opinion, he shut his eyes tight against the rising sun and jumped.


	3. Chapter 3

            "Oof!"

            Aragorn felt the breath leave him in a whoosh and wondered why his head and feet still hurt.  Wasn't there supposed to be a numbing quality to death?

            "You're lucky I didn't go back for the other cake."

            Cake?  What?  Through waves of pain and breathlessness Aragorn struggled to make sense of his situation.

            "What…" he muttered, or meant to.  It came out more like "Unnh…"

            "Careful, now.  Hold still."  The voice that reached Aragorn was hardly recognizable through his hangover-clogged senses, but the view that plummeted away from him was clear enough.  Sunlight warmed the side of his tower while far, far below, the cold hard cobbles of the courtyard remained in shadow.  He felt his body thump up against the stone wall and it sent him into a writhing panic.

            "Lemme go, lemme go!"  Wide open air fell away beneath his boots.

            "Hush, keep, quite or the guards will—

            "Lemme go!  Geroffame!"

            "Aragorn—"

            "Don't do it!"

            "Aragorn!"

            A hand seized Aragorn's chin and held it still.

            "Aragorn, open your eyes."

            Aragorn would not.  He felt the warm stones on his back and the air beneath his boots and the firm arm around him.  Even through the agony of his hangover he felt the warm breath on his face, and he was afraid.  "It's only a dream," he whispered.  Hating the words; fearing their truth.

            "Aragorn."  Then, softer still, "_Elessar."_

            Slowly Aragorn cracked an eye open trembling without realizing it.  And met twin pools of sky flecked with sapphire.

            "This is no dream," Legolas said before Aragorn could protest.  "If it were I would have let go a long time ago, rather than dangle here like carp on a Mirkwood rod.  Come on, let us get inside."  He smiled at the tears leaking from Aragorn's eyes, bent forward—as if to kiss them away, Aragorn thought.  But at that moment the flash of sunrise on metal helmets glinted down in the courtyard and he hauled more urgently at Aragorn's bulk.  "The changing guards will see us soon.  Hurry."

            Aragorn never saw how the Elf managed it, the maneuvering of both their bodies along with a sack Legolas had slung over his shoulder, up to the window—curtains still billowing—and in.

            It was only when they thudded to the floor on the safe side of the windowsill that Aragorn thought of his appearance.  Hastily he disentangled himself from the Elf where they had fallen, regretting more than the pain in his head as he did so.

            "I'm sorry," he mumbled, throwing his hands up a the sty.  "I haven't…I didn't…"

            "You're in pain."  Legolas rolled up onto his feet with a graced that tugged Aragorn to his core.  "Here," the Elf said, tossing a small green pouch in Aragorn's direction.

            The Man caught it, barely, and gave both it and the Elf a blank look.

            "It will ease your headache," Legolas explained, stepping closer to retrieve the pouch and open it.  Aragorn felt their proximity keenly as the Elf drew a few knotty roots from the bag and held them out.  "Chew these," he said.

            Aragorn had a fleeting image of Legolas feeding the roots to him one by one, but bowed his flaming face and took them before his fantasy could get out of hand.

            "What's in the bag?" he asked lamely when the fast-acting roots began their work.

            Legolas grinned.  "Your kitchen's finest."

            "My kitchen…?"

            "What, you thought quick Elven hands could only be used for shooting arrows?"

            Aragorn had to restrain himself from saying that he thought quick Elven hands would do him a world of good.

            "Sit down, sit down.  Careful, I snatched it right from the oven."

            For the first time that morning Aragorn became aware of his ravenous stomach.  In lunging for the nutcake his hand brushes Legolas' as the Elf tore off his own hunk of bread, and the two of them froze for a moment, fingers frozen over piping-hot cake like eagles waiting to dive.  Then the spell snapped.

            "Here, you fetched it, go ahead," Aragorn stammered, just as Legolas said,

"It came from your stock, it's yours."

Both looked to the ceiling, the walls, the floor shimmering under its carpet of glass.  To his own surprise, Aragorn cleared his throat and spoke first.  "I don't think this bread can be called mine any more than the rule of this country can."

Legolas looked away.  "So I've heard."

"You…heard?  Where?  When?"  It was all Aragorn could do not to cry out, _why didn't you come to me?!_  But then, that would be being presumptuous.  When the Elf failed to answer right away Aragorn floundered on, all too conscious of his tendency to probe.  "So you're a merchant advisor for Lothlorien now, are you?  You're quite the adept.  First a prince, now a merchant…what next?  Farmer?"

"A prince no longer," Legolas murmured to the window.

Aragorn cursed himself mentally for bringing it up.

"But here, the bread's getting cold.  You look famished, Aragorn—do you spend much time up here?"

"Yes…well, no, I…" Aragorn gazed around the prison of a room.  Two years a king, and this was all he had to show for it.  "I'm usually, er, down in the city…"

"You would have made it so much easier on me to have remained there," Legolas laughed, gesturing to the window and its precipitous climb.

It was such a golden opportunity, and Aragorn couldn't stand it any longer.  "Why did…you come?  To me," he added hastily.

Legolas' eyes were throwing blue sparks when he turned back—whether of laughter or anger or something else altogether, Aragorn couldn't tell.

"Why do you think, Aragorn?"  The Elf's voice was smooth and measured; no hint of his mood there.

"I don't want to think," Aragorn responded truthfully.

Legolas was silent for such a long time that Aragorn wondered whether even Elven ears had missed his strangled whisper.  But before he could think of something to say, Legolas spoke for him.

"You were wondering, I suppose, at the delay?  Why I didn't come earlier if I hadn't gone to the Undying Lands?" the Elf sighed.  "I am sorry, Aragorn."

"Don't be—"

"No.  I am.  I have these silly ideas sometimes…"  He turned sharply, struck by something, and caught Aragorn's eye.  "They did tell you why I am no longer a prince, didn't they?"

Aragorn shook his head, grateful for the roots that kept the motion from being agonizing.

"They didn't?  The contingent from Lothlorien?  Not a word?"

"Nothing."

Legolas grabbed Aragorn by the shoulders suddenly; shook him hard.  "But you knew, didn't you?" the Elf cried.  "Tell me you knew!"  Tears glistened in his eyes.

"Knew what?"  Aragorn tried to remain aloof but his voice cracked on the last word.  This was it, then.  He was sure he didn't want to know what Legolas was about to tell him, and just as sure that the Elf was going to tell it anyway.  _Fool_, Aragorn chided himself.  _You were better off believing this was a dream._  What would burst his bubble this time?  An immaculate conception with Gimli?  With Arwen?  A wasting sickness, the only one ever to befall the Elves?

"I love you, Aragorn."

It took a moment for those words to sink in.  When they did, Aragorn leapt to his feet in a rage.  "I don't believe you!" he howled, pointing an accusing finger at a broken-faced Legolas.  "I don't believe you're even here!"

At this Legolas rushed to his side and clutched his arm beseechingly.  "But you must believe me, Aragorn!  I am real, here in this room, and I've wanted you ever since—"

Angrily Aragorn shook him off.  "This is a dream!  A dream born in a drunken stupor and the waste I've made of my life!"  He stalked to the window, glass crunching underfoot.

"It is not," Legolas insisted from behind.

            _"Prove it!"_

            Slowly, slowly Aragorn felt light hands slip around his waist.  Ignoring all instincts, he let them stay there.

            "What could I do, Aragorn," Legolas whispered, his breath hot in Aragorn's ear, "to prove that all this—that I—that _we_ are real?"


	4. Chapter 4

            Instead of answering, Aragorn let himself be steered toward the bed, gently and with the utmost care given to the pressure about his waist.  Neither of them spoke as the Elf divested Aragorn of stained shirt and rumpled tunic, hands moving more swiftly than they did with bow and arrow.

            "Would this convince you?" the Elf said at last, leaning forward to trail his tongue along Aragorn' collarbone.

            The Man shivered.

            "Or this?"  When Legolas' tongue came to a flat nipple it paused there, tracing lazy patterns on the flesh.

            "Please!" yelped Aragorn, because he could think of nothing else to say.

            "Tell me if your dreams do this."  Before Aragorn could get a look at what the Elf was doing, his bedraggled royal leggings were ripped down around his ankles and Legolas was grinning as the Man's erection sprang free.  "Should I?" Legolas purred, close enough for Aragorn to feel the breath on his cock.

            How to answer a question like that?  But Legolas didn't wait for an answer, just as he didn't wait for Aragorn's hands to bury themselves in his mane in rapture.  He smiled as he sucked Aragorn dry, never closing his eyes, never letting the worn face now flashing in mounting ecstasy from his sight.

            When Aragorn came it was with a hoarse shout, as red and raw as the past years had been black and barren.  His body went slack and Legolas gathered him into his arms, not stopping to tend to his Elven locks.  After a moment Aragorn looked up into those sapphire eyes and smiled.  "You'll be the death of me yet," he whispered.

            "Dreams don't kill," Legolas replied, lacing the Man's limp fingers with his own.

            Aragorn almost said it then; almost professed his deepest, grandest belief in the Elf's presence.  But there was still more to be gained here.  "The master of the woodland realm has a bit of a hair problem," he said instead, chuckling as he batted at the tresses he himself had mussed.

            "There are more important things than—" Legolas began.  He never got the chance to finish.

            Finger to Legolas' lips, Aragorn extricated himself from the Elf's embrace and proceeded to peel green leggings back from pale skin.  The Man only grinned at Legolas' wide eyes.  "Dreams don't harden, either," he said by way of explanation, leaning down.  He frowned as Legolas stopped him with a hand.

            "Wait," Legolas gasped.  "We could do that, or…"  The Elf tried to rise from the bed but Aragorn wouldn't let him.  "Over there, in the bag I brought.  Get the jar—it's blue, I think."

            Casting numerous glances over his shoulder—as if afraid Legolas would disappear in a puff of smoke the moment his back was turned—Aragorn complied.

            "Open it."

            A sweet smell, delicate and faintly floral, filled the air around them.

            "What do you use it for?" Aragorn asked, peering at the stuff in his hand with interest.

            "It prevents pain."

            Aragorn frowned.  "It doesn't…numb, does it?"  He colored a little.  "I wanted to feel…all…of you."

            Legolas smiled and took the jar from a perplexed Aragorn.  "And so you shall.  This doesn't numb at all, it just helps things go smoothly.  You apply it like this—."

            Aragorn jolted, nearly falling off the bed.  "It's _cold!_"

            "You'll have your chance with me," Legolas laughed, swabbing another helping along Aragorn's stirring member.  "Or…do you know quite what to do?"

            Aragorn looked indignant.  "I know the principle of the thing!  Just, not from experience."

            "I'd be happy to teach—"

            Aragorn silenced any further words by slamming his lips onto Legolas', searing their tongues in an all-consuming embrace.  "No," he panted at last, pulling just far enough away that the Elf had room to gasp air.  "You've given enough.  Now it's my turn."

            With arms ropey from brawling, Aragorn flipped Legolas onto his stomach, smoothing the tousled blonde hair as he did.  "All these years," he murmured, nuzzling the Elf's neck as his erection pressed into the pale, smooth spine.

            Legolas shuddered beneath him.

            Aragorn slid down then and—prompting a whimper of protest from Legolas—away, just long enough to prepare the Elf with the sweet-smelling unguent.

            Legolas' moans began almost before the Man entered him.  Once there, Aragorn encouraged him with butterfly kisses along his shoulders and the back of his neck, each meeting of skin timed perfectly to each thrust, evoking little yelps in between the moans.  Up, up they climbed in pitch and intensity until finally with a shriek of Aragorn's name the Elf came; felt the Man's release inside him even as his tongue, toes and very being curled in ecstasy.

            Aragorn retrained the state of mind as he rolled off Legolas to hold the pale body in his arms just as he had been held earlier.  They lay like that for a few minutes, not saying anything, the only sounds those of their own ragged breathing.  Or so Aragorn thought.

            But gradually Legolas started to shake, and when Aragorn glanced down at him in concern he saw that the Elf was stifling giggles.

            "What?" Aragorn asked, smiling though he wasn't quite sure what was going on.

            Legolas only shook his head and squealed with mirth.

            "What is it?  Don't make me wheedle it out of you," Aragorn threatened, pattering his fingers along Legolas' armpit to show just what he meant.

            "Shh!" the Elf half-whispered, half-tittered.  "I'll tell you.  There's someone listening at the door."

            Aragorn raised his eyebrows.  "Are you sure?"

            "Of course I'm sure!  My ears are better than yours," Legolas replied haughtily, twitching his ear under Aragorn's lips for added effect.  "Do you want to go see for yourself?"

            "And leave you alone in this bed?  I think not."  Aragorn kissed the pointy Elf ear because it was there, then let Legolas buy his face in the crook of his neck.  "I wonder what the guards are going to report today," Aragorn laughed.

            "Mmm," purred Legolas, seeming not to have heard.  "You thrum deliciously when you talk."

            "_This is the _best_ I've ever had, it sure is!"_  Aragorn yelled for the listener's benefit, prompting another giggle from Legolas and a shuffling of feet outside the door.

            "You mean that?" the Elf murmured sleepily into Aragorn's neck.

            "Of course!"

            "You believe I'm really here, then."

            Aragorn chuckled.  "Legolas, I've believed in you for quite some time now."  He tucked a blonde braid behind the Elf's ear.

            "Do that again."

            Aragorn picked up another braid.  "What?  Play with your hair?"

            "No—well, that's fine too, but just keep laughing.  Or talk, even.  It feels good."

            "All right…" Aragorn drawled, feeling the Elf's delight at the resonant tones.  "You never told me."  He stopped himself, unsure if he was about to ruin the moment.

            "Told you what?"  Legolas was fading fast and Aragorn wasn't far behind.  Even if the words were ill-timed, the two of them would soon be blissfully asleep in each other's arms.

            "Why your father disowned you," Aragorn whispered, half-hoping the Elf was too far gone to hear.

            But Legolas adjusted his position so he could see the Man's face.  The sun's rays, which had finally made their way across the threshold to the bed, caught the sapphire flecks in their pools of paler blue and made them dance.

            "I didn't tell you?"

            Aragorn shook his head.

            Legolas brought his hands up to either side of Aragorn's face.  His smile was salty as he said, "I love you, Aragorn.  I would never leave you."

            "But what does that—"

            "My father guessed as much.  He knew I wouldn't leave Middle Earth.  He tried to talk me out of the whole plan to go to you and…"  Legolas shrugged a little and smiled.  "Guess who won out."

            Aragorn was speechless.  He didn't know whether to clutch the Elf's pale hand or cup that beautiful face with its milky jawline.  In the end he did neither.  Legolas guided Aragorn's hand to right where it needed to be.


End file.
